"We'll give you a hand, Hank," said Bob. "Come on, Dick—help get a fire started."
Hank had a treat, in shape of several trout, and these, cooked between hot stones, were declared delicious.
The boys had a great deal to talk about. Hank listened gravely, making but little comment, until Dave spoke about the bearskin.
"Stole, eh?" he exclaimed, blowing a cloud of smoke in the air. "Tough luck, lad. Only a pesky snake 'ud do a thing like that."
The firelight brought out the wrinkles and seams on his rugged face, and for an instant his kindly eye flashed sternly.
"A bad business, lads," he continued. "A bad business." Then he gazed at the smoke rings again, apparently in deep thought.
Early next morning, Hank prepared the wildcat's skin, as well as that of the swan, and, loaded with these and the moose antlers, the boys bade him good-bye.
"Look out fur yerselves, lads," he said. "Perhaps I may run acrost ye ag'in."
"Certainly hope so, Hank," declared Dick. "I'll never forget you or that jacklight trip. Three cheers for Hank Merwin!"
And the lusty shouts that followed made a faint smile play across the impassive face of the trapper.